Home – I’m still in search of it. Home
Eludes me as, pro adult, I walk
From house to house from time to time.
Falling, fainting, begging – I’m pleading.
Till I find her I will be. Deceiving.
Twelve years ago, or more, before
Getting to know that earthly pleasure really meant
Life, life, like a movie which got watched and returned
From a club for rent, was always assured
Of coming back home at the end of it.
Reality were simpler, the world was bigger,
Happy in that laid-down routine, Man was
A little twig afloat. Much fresher.
Played Cricket in the rain. Got bowled through the defense
Again. And again.
Didn’t pay the bus from school to town.
When Clancy Fernando was bombed,
We got around the TV, watched the snap of his
White beard and face. Felt as if the worst calamity
Had just hit the darn mortal race.
We were, by all means, half-ticket patriots.
In our little way we gave. Organized a
Clancy memorial Cricket match
In the close of our yard. Cousin, attempting
A return catch, landed on two blobs of dog shit.
That yard remains. The yard remains.
I look from an improvised seat on a slab
And I follow with my eyes where
The flowers grow. Cousin is now a leasing-man.
Dogs don’t seem to shit no more.
In the trash cans where we dumped our toys
With which we played no more we let the memories
Go where the memories go.
Getting to know desire and the response to touch
Were not necessarily the same. The yard remains.
It is this world that I want you to share.
In the arms of that man who claims to love you,
Being held, looking into his eyes, I don’t want to
See you there. This is where I am. This is where I’ll be.
I love you. Yes. I love. Come, if you dare.
Years later, when Clancy’s came up,
My first thought was that it was a
Memorial tribute, too. Not really, I mean.
But as rumour had it I was convinced it was.
Or, maybe it was just my sense of humour